


Crossing Aisles

by brutumfulmen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: General Buffoonery, Godly Shenanigans, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pregnancy, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutumfulmen/pseuds/brutumfulmen
Summary: To be fair, from God's perspective Aziraphale and Crowley's retirement just means they'll have more time for Her next great idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read before continuing: To avoid spoilers on certain plot lines some things that might make some readers uncomfortable will not been tagged. Please acknowledge that you are accepting that the author has made you aware about the lack of warnings.

No, I actually do not play dice with the universe, despite a recent poll telling you otherwise.

Everything since time began - even all the grief and pain - has gone according to plan in the only way a plan that has billions of souls capable of free will can go.

With the Great Plan concluded, the fate of my Children continues to unfold in ever-changing, ineffable ways. I still delight in their triumphs, and grieve alongside them through their sorrows. Some choose me, some do not. It is how this was always meant to go, the moment my first Children picked an apple from a wily serpent’s suggestion.

This tale is not about the fate of my Children, but rather about a little issue called corporate culture. Neither 'side' claims such a creation, but feel free to look at Heaven and Hell as rival offices - one of which branched off thinking it could do a better job of… not quite producing anything of value other than the routine re-balancing of a scale that sits third place from a star called Sol in the Milky Way galaxy.

However, now that the Ineffable Plan continues unabated, such things cannot last. The bickering is bad for morale and Heaven hasn’t come up with any new ideas since we sent Elijah a flaming chariot - how _cool_ was that? I need something for my servants to do besides harass one another at the water-cooler.

Most of all, my Children must endure and their souls are not to be collateral damage for any longer than they have been.

I tried to ring up Lucifer for some input, but I know he’s blocked this number too. I’ll send a card to him later, because I have the most ingenious _plan_.

It is a big undertaking, to forcibly remind celestial and occult creatures what they all are without another war breaking out over hurt feelings. Requires a great deal of patience, strength, and most of all courage.

So who better, you ask, than the one servant of mine that has somehow managed to bridge the gap?

I'm sure you can already guess.

My _dear_ Aziraphale, your ability to remain ever faithful while at the side of a demon is commendable, and potentially very beautiful. What is about to unfold for you both will change not the world, let’s leave that alone for once, but hopefully your little corner of it and at least seven departments in Heaven _and_ Hell.

(I say as if I do not know, but surely he does not need _all_ the answers right at the beginning. These things are more interesting without audience input anyways).

Perhaps I should do this in person, but Judge Deborah put a last minute team-building exercise on my calendar, so best be off to that.

* * *

Three months after Armageddon never happened, a retired principality went about his business in the bookshop he’s called home for centuries. Despite the infamous duo of Heaven and Hell considering themselves officially retired from their general duties, Aziraphale has a bookshop to run while Crowley has… whatever he is off doing now.

Sliding an ancient herbal textbook into place on its shelf, Aziraphale idly ponders where the demon had in fact run off to; usually he stopped by at least once a week but it has been two already--

A rap at the door followed by said door swinging open jolts Aziraphale out of his reverie. Walking to the front of his shop greets him with an office worker of a higher power dressed in a pale orange suit holding a clipboard and umbrella, sending a shudder straight up Aziraphale’s back.

Surely this wasn’t a - a _summons?_ A million thoughts race through his mind, all starring Gabriel yelling at him, until the other angel taps the floor with their umbrella, slowly closing the door behind them until it clicks shut.

Something in Aziraphale relaxes, just a bit, at the display of propriety and he flicks a wrist to flip the shop sign to closed, shutter all the blinds, and brighten the lights.

No better way of doing celestial business than without corporeal interference.

(It is also the perfect reason not to sell a book).

”Hello,” Aziraphale tries, smiling with less enthusiasm than an angel of his upbringing typically musters.

The office angel, with a web of glowing cracks on their face Aziraphale dimly notes, scans the now softly illuminated bookshop, blearily looks up at Aziraphale, then down at their clipboard. Aziraphale sucks in a breath--

“Aziraphale, principality assigned to Europe,” their bored voice begins and if Aziraphale wasn’t so tense he’d be offended until they start providing, of all things, a work update. “…backlog of four miracle audits…” he winces.

Oh _dear_.

“…inbox with twenty-six thousand unread emails… Delivery for you.” The office angel thrusts forward said delivery, sealed in a plain envelope that bears a seal of... indescribability. 

_(If he bothered to look closely he’d have noticed it was actually a smiley face, the kind with a nose. God meant it when She said nothing creative has been done since Biblical times)._

Aziraphale clears his throat, watching the office angel's neutral expression. “Pardon?”

“Delivery,” the office angel impatiently waves it right in front of Aziraphale’s nose until he bats the offending envelope away, snatching it with a huff. The office angel taps their foot, raising an eyebrow until Aziraphale pulls a letter opener from the ether and carefully slices it open.

Into his hand falls a crisply folded piece of paper. He flips it open to be greeted by a blinding light and what sounds like a choir before promptly slapping it shut.

“What is this?” He rasps out, blinking away the spots in his vision. The office angel, now leaning on their umbrella scribbling something onto that clipboard, pauses to glance over at the paper in Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

“What?”

Now Aziraphale waves something in the other’s face, see how they like it. “Pray tell - what is this?”

The office angel plucks it, opens to blinding light and looks at a stunned Aziraphale before handing it back. “Looks like a letter.”

With a crack, the office angel is gone, and Aziraphale is left alone. Glancing over at the door warily, then back to the letter in hand, he carefully peels it back open. Once again wincing at the bright light, Aziraphale began to read.

_Dear Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate,_

The angel swallows, tugging at his collar; not since Eden has the Lord personally reached out to him. Perhaps… he and Crowley did not get away as cleanly as they hoped? Was the demon receiving a similar (hopefully less blinding _my word_ ) letter at this moment?

Squinting, he continues.

_I’d give you the congratulations in person, but unfortunately Raphael is on holiday and someone has to help chair the promotion panels for this year. While your job remains intact, as I’m sure you know, we do need another principality to assist in the usual administrative tasks and general workload._

_This letter is to inform you that upon the end of reading, you will find yourself expecting. Yes, in that way._

The noise that escapes Aziraphale could be described as a rather undignified wheeze.

_The child will be the culmination of you and your compatriot’s - yes that one - rather unique bond. I can see your shock. If you need some sort of catalyst to help you fully accept this situation I can always make one up._

_So, here you go, it took just both you having touched at least once, and I believe you two's antics several months back are **quite** the contact, wouldn’t you agree? _

_In exactly one year you and the demon called Crowley will be blessed with what is the hope of ending this needless feud permanently. How will that happen with the birth of a child between an angel and the Serpent? Feel free to find out more exciting details in one year._

_Nothing about your earthly form will change, I know how fond of it you are... and that would be a lot of paperwork for us both to fill out._ _I also never quite know what to put in the ‘reason’ field, and certainly don't expect you to, either._

_The downside of this is getting to the end of your delivery might require some... creative thinking. I know my Children have made impressive strides in modern medicine, however, so feel free to let me know if you need a referral to a good doctor._

By now, Aziraphale has bitten right through his lip, a tremor making the paper ripple in his hand.

_Do not be afraid, my faithful servant. You should have that delightful source of protection I gave you all those years ago._

_Congratulations!_

_Always,_

_God_

_P.S.: Sit down, you musn’t work too hard in your delicate condition._

Aziraphale feels something funny tremble in his chest, barely aware of his sweaty fingers miracling a chair for the angel to promptly collapse into. Silence consumes the bookshop as the something funny in Aziraphale’s chest teeters right at the edge of a meltdown. He drops his head into his hands, struggling to remain calm, gripping his hair as the letter flutters underfoot.

H-him and _Crowley--_

There is a knock at the door.


	2. Chapter 2

He would have ignored the door if it was in his constitution to do so. Aziraphale has never been able to be anything other than polite, though.

With great difficulty, Aziraphale drags himself across the bookshop, adjusting his coat and vest along the way. Barely cracking it open, he peeks outside.

“I’m very sorry but we are closed--”

“Knew you’d answer eventually, special delivery!” The postman smiles as if Aziraphale never spoke, holding up a flat box. “Please sign for.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders droop with his sigh. At least it wasn’t another angel. Perhaps the next letter would have been God telling him that Gabriel himself was going to personally deliver the baby.

He shudders at the thought. Best not to speak anything into existence.

With a flick of the pen he signs and the postman is off, leaving Aziraphale alone in his shop again. The letter still lays where he dropped it, to his annoyance. With a finger point he floats it over to his desk, tucking the box under arm and following the travelling letter.

It settles nicely atop the desk, laying open with only a soft glow now.

Aziraphale pulls open the box with careful hands, peeling away the brown wrapper that encases what he discovers upon lifting it out, to be a book.

He grimaces at the title. _Oh no no no--_

Dropping the book back into its box, Aziraphale finds himself sitting once again, even if at a different chair. There’s quite a few around this shop for someone that does not like loitering.

He reads over the letter again with a weary eye, having accepted as much as he possibly can that this is indeed happening.

“Right,” he breathes to the empty air, “right.” Surely he has something about all this in his shop that is _not_ the book he just received from - he can only guess.

There is little in today’s world that Aziraphale is not well read on. Everything from sociopolitical movements to obscure astrological theories is tucked away somewhere in the angel’s well stocked bookshop. Humanity is a never ending fountain of knowledge Aziraphale has discovered over the millennia, and he is a devoted fan.

Aziraphale thumbs through his directory, turning the pages with mounting frustrating at everything but himself. Sitting back, he lets out a huff.

He doesn’t have a single book on human biology.

Well, of course not! It was a body and thanks to a series of careful miraculous works he has kept it functioning just fine for all these years. Why would he ever need to know about how the heart pumps blood or the way legs work?

_He really should have been more curious about all this._

Worrying at his lip, Aziraphale inevitably ponders the other half of this biological situation: Crowley.

He and Crowley have not even held _hands_ let alone done what is needed to - _well._ Not that this form was capable of that to begin with, the Almighty noted so... even if She immediately disregarded it all to make _this_ happen.

The angel blushed to think of it all.

His thoughts slowed as he considered what was happening. There was going to be a child soon, something of his and _Crowley’s_. One year from now.

A hand crept to his stomach, just below where his vest ended, before he snatched it away as if burned.

Aziraphale is considered by a majority of his begrudging peers to be an angel of integrity, fidelity, and a rather impressive degree of purity. Although most of his behavior over the millennia can be described human in nature, surely no one could blame him for being caught flat-footed.

So, we’ll leave him for the moment to do what he usually tends towards when confronted with a situation he does not understand.

He puts the kettle on, and cracks open a completely unrelated book.

* * *

If you have not noticed by now, nowhere along this thought process does Aziraphale consider that perhaps the other half involved in this situation would be able to provide some insight into this whole ordeal.

(That is alright though, this was expected. Even the whole ignoring the gift I sent him. It did have the best reviews online though, according to the one angel I could find that knew how to work a computer.)

...Which is why Crowley’s appointment _unexpectedly_ cancelled on him and he is now racing towards Soho at a personal record breaking (at least in London) 110 MPH, having only one near discorporating collision with a passing truck so far. 

It will do for now.

Crowley raps his fingers on the steering wheel as he struggles to shrug the last webs of sleep from his body, wondering why he woke from his two week nap to a notification that a temptation was cancelled. 

He hadn’t even known there was one scheduled for today.

Although Hell has decided to leave Crowley alone for however long their demonic restraint lasts, the demon is aware that burning bridges will only lead to _complications_ down the road.

The occasional temptation does in fact do wonders for keeping the few contacts he has in Hell aware of his general existence while ensuring the others stay far _far_ away from him and Aziraphale.

Aziraphale. Crowley almost cracks a smile at the thought of the angel. Wonder what he’s been up to while Crowley slept.

The next traffic light changes to red, and Crowley slams on the gas to Freddie’s crescending voice.

* * *

“Where have you _been_ ,” Aziraphale immediately chides when the demon walks in the door and all Crowley can do is shrug, looking about the shop. _Always good to be back._

“It has been over _two weeks!_ ” Aziraphale continues, wringing a dusting cloth in his hands as the demon circles him for a moment, tasting the air and Aziraphale’s familiar scent.

_Very good to be back._

“Sleeping,” Crowley replies sauntering past Aziraphale deeper into the bookshop to throw himself on his usual chair, grabbing a book to idly flip through. “Forgot to set an alarm. Apologies and all that.”

The lack of further chiding stops Crowley, tossing the book aside, and he tastes the air again catching what now is the distinct smell of distress coming in waves from the angel.

“Aziraphale,” the demon jumps up, stalking over to where the angel was still standing fiddling with that blasted cloth, blue eyes fixated on floor. 

Ignoring Crowley the angel shuffles over to his desk to sit down, pointedly aware of Crowley’s shadow trailing him.

“Angel what is going on,” he hisses, leaning into Aziraphale’s space gripping the arm rests. Aziraphale sees his reflection flashing back at him in Crowley’s sunglasses, and he drops his gaze in embarrassment over how Crowley must see him.

Crowley is waiting, and Aziraphale knows it was bound to come out eventually. Truth setting one free and all that.

 _I just hoped I would have had a bit longer to..._

To what? Perhaps not have to face what he can only imagine will be Crowley’s unhappy reaction. _They were getting along so well too._

He takes a deep breath. 

“Something came in the mail today. An _official_ letter.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise, yet he doesn’t move away. “After two months they send you... a letter.”

“Not _they_ ,” Aziraphale whispers as if that somehow means She cannot hear him anymore. The angel glances about trying to avoid acknowledging how close the demon was to him, before pointing a finger up.

“From... _Her_.”

Crowley’s own breathing stops, still leaning far towards Aziraphale and the angel fights against the desire to breathe in deeper what he takes to be Crowley’s cologne and something smokey, naturally Crowley.

The demon suddenly dips his chin, snake eyes visible over the rims of his sunglasses. “Show me.”

* * *

Crowley closes the blinding letter, his face taking on the hue of someone that has been out in the sun far too long, and turns to meet Aziraphale’s worried face. He cannot help but drop his gaze to Aziraphale’s middle, which the angel unconsciously goes to cover with his arms, flushing. 

_Oh, really now._

Neither of them seem to be willing to make the first move, but Crowley can taste Aziraphale’s anxiety soaking the air. His own heart is pounding now, he dimly notices.

"Guess that means no alcohol for a whole year," Crowley lilts, tongue catching between his teeth. The look on Aziraphale's face crumples into pure misery with a healthy mix of exasperation.

"I don't feel like you are taking this very seriously," Aziraphale turned back towards this desk, running a finger over a bright purple book Crowley has never seen in this shop. (Neither has Aziraphale but that’s besides the point).

At Aziraphale’s comment Crowley straightened up. Now wasn’t the time for jokes, it seems.

"Of course I am, angel," he replied, voice dropping enough to soothe the angel’s ruffled feathers. "Just not every day I get a letter in the post saying I got someone up the duff. Thought I would remember such a thing.” Crowley grins when Aziraphale flushes, sputtering as he reaches for his miraculously still warm tea.

“Don’t be so vulgar,” Aziraphale chides without much bite, pushing his spectacles up with a fingertip. 

They avoid eye contact for a moment.

Crowley cracks first, shrugging. “Not sure what to say, angel, guess you’re going to be having a holy baby.”

“It is to be yours as well, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, taking another sip and glancing down at the gifted purple book with a cautious eye, then back up at Crowley.

Crowley slowly smiles, flashing his impressive fangs at Aziraphale. “We’re going to be parents, huh? Bit of an upgrade from godfathers.” He breathes as if in a daydream. Aziraphale shakes his head.

“This will be a disaster. I can just see the look on Gabriel’s face—” Crowley’s grin widens further. “—they will never leave us alone now. All this over an - an office war and oh why did She have to choose _me_? I never wanted any of this.” Aziraphale cries, hands gripping his angelic cup tightly.

Aziraphale looks away just in time to miss a wave of hurt cross the demon’s face.

Taking a breath, Crowley runs a hand through his hair, dragging his sunglasses away with the other, and the angel jolts as those eyes are fully revealed. Something was about to happen, and Aziraphale braces himself.

“What do you want to do about this then, Aziraphale,” Crowley rumbles, slitted pupils almost nonexistent against the burnished gold. Aziraphale shifts, briefly glancing over to the book on his desk. The title seems to mock him, _Your Nine Month Countdown_. Amazing what gets past the editor nowadays, yet according to God he will be facing a year of... whatever this book says.

(She said a year, right).

“I—”

“I’m asking because,” Crowley has still not looked away, and Aziraphale finds himself unable to, “if you’re that unhappy over this you do not have to go through with it… if you do not want to.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Really? I have to spell it out?” Crowley groans, sending his gaze skywards. “What I mean is there are ways - human ways - to _stop_ the situation if you do not want to continue. There’s still plenty of time, just got the letter after all, yeah?” The demon folds his arms over his chest, waiting for Aziraphale to digest his words until--

Something in the general vicinity of Aziraphale’s heart cracks. _Oh._

“I could never!” Aziraphale cries, standing with more strength than he feels, dragging Crowley’s calm expression up with him. “I know you don’t care but the- the Lord gave me this duty and no matter how- how _distressing_ this will be _,_ I must see it through!”

Aziraphale regrets it the moment he says it, and Crowley’s expression hardens. The demon puts his sunglasses back on, not unlike the shuttering of a window Aziraphale rarely got to see through. 

Nothing about Crowley had been mocking, or even joking. Yet somehow, that made it so, so much worse, to have his closest companion - the other half of this _child_ \- seriously suggest that for them. Although Aziraphale himself was absolutely terrified by all this, deep within Aziraphale lay the hope that…

_Well, how foolish of him._

“Distressing,” Crowley repeats quietly, cutting through Aziraphale’s thoughts, and rubbed his chin. “Somehow I would have thought you of all people would consider this a good deal, 'the chosen one of Upstairs'. But yeah, I guess the whole ‘half-demon’ part _would_ in fact be distressing.” The demon mocks quietly.

Aziraphale flinches, he knows it was cruel, but before he can apologize Crowley is standing up, cutting a black line through the angel’s vision.

“Alright, well, you always have a few months to change your mind if you do,” Crowley stretches, letting out an exaggerated groan. “In the meantime, I have something to get done, expect me back here later.”

Aziraphale’s heart jumps to his throat, and makes towards Crowley's retreating form. “Crowley wait, please--” _Don’t leave me._

The demon paused, turning around to lay a thin hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder, the cool of Crowley’s body sinking through the fabric. His eyes seem to be glowing right through those dark lenses, boring into Aziraphale’s own. 

“I will be back later, angel.”

* * *

Crowley is a demon and lying is one of the many tools in his arsenal. How many has he seduced to darkness with a carefully placed offering, how many frustrations has he induced by a simple rumor?

Not that many, actually. Lies are tough for him to keep track of. Besides, the careful art of inducing others into their own sin always appealed to him far more.

So that he doesn’t end up lying to anyone, Crowley sets a timer on his watch for when he expects himself back at Aziraphale’s bookshop. He indeed has something that must be attended to before he returns. Perhaps the most important thing he’s ever done.

A breath escapes him as he walks through the door into his modern Mayfair flat. The thick nursery of his plants, verdant as ever, tremble when his unseeing gaze passes over them. He’d have noticed the fiddle leaf tree sporting an unforgivable spot if there had not been only one thing on his mind.

Or rather, _two_ things on his mind.

Heat blooms in Crowley’s chest at the thought, but unlike the type of heat that burns, that _condemns_ , it soothes an ache he never knew a demon could have. He rubs off-center of his chest with a grumble. It’s pleasant and he’s immediately suspicious of all things pleasant. Yet he repeats the word again.

_Two._

And they’re both back in Soho.

Crowley knows it was rather cowardly to leave Aziraphale so suddenly, no matter how it ended. After all, the angel has just been told he’ll be the vessel for what God Herself believes to be the best way to end the nonsense between Heaven and Hell.

This all _reeks_ of Her typical meddling, Her utter disregard for everything they both risked to be free. You can resign from a position but your boss will still be calling months later asking you to open an email for them.

Crowley feels the scales on his back shifting with his rising ire, the air rattling around him. In the next room his plants shudder. _Good._

No wonder Aziraphale is bemoaning his fate. If he had still been an active member of Heaven’s cadre receiving this task, while they are extremely annoying and surprisingly cruel at times (Crowley is still itching to bite right through Gabriel’s neck), even Crowley knows the angels would have rallied around their wayward principality. 

God’s Plan and all. Or something.

But two months ago that changed. They were now cut off from the security of their former offices. All they have is each other, and Crowley had just walked out on the angel.

With a sigh he didn’t have to heave, Crowley slouched further into his chair.

 _Feelings_ \- he grimaces at the word - are complicated.

While he knew their relationship was shuffling towards something more complex than the former Arrangement and even current friendship, the quagmire of ‘beyond’ required some amount of delicate muddling. If not for his sake, then definitely for Aziraphale’s.

 _You go too fast for me._ Crowley wants to laugh.

Looks like God threw a spanner in those works. Aziraphale has the audacity to complain about six thousand years being too fast when She cuts right to the baby pram line of that nonsense.

Crowley stood up, cracking his knuckles far more times than human hands would realistically need.

Enough dawdling, he tells himself, that was his angel’s specialty not his. They have a year of this before both Front Offices are beating down their doors, it’s time to get to work _._

No matter how _distressing_.

The lingering warmth in his chest dissipates, leaving only the ache. Alright that one had hurt, Crowley admits in the privacy of his head as he walks towards the bedroom.

Yanking a sleek tablet off his nightstand, Crowley powers it on and waits for the machine to stop crashing as thousands of various notifications flood in, miracling himself a cup of coffee while the popups race across the screen.

Eventually the tablet stops smoking, and Crowley doesn’t even give it a moment before he pulls up a map.

* * *

It is late into the evening when Crowley at last slinks back to Aziraphale’s shop.

“Crowley! Oh thank goodness you’re back,” Aziraphale rushes forward at the sound of the door opening, face bright with so much relief Crowley can feel it permeating through the shop.

Immediately Crowley drops his bags, stalking towards Aziraphale to grip the shorter one’s shoulders. “Why? What happened?” He presses his face to the angel’s stunned one. “ _Tell me!_ ”

Aziraphale flushes brilliantly, hands coming up between them to fidget with his vest hem. “Ah- I- nothing I just worried you wouldn’t return.” He admits quietly, looking down at his feet.

The demon’s shoulders sag as all the tension rushes out of him. He’s never going to survive the year at this rate. 

“I told you, angel, I would be back.” Crowley’s hands drop from Aziraphale, and he straightens. “Just had some things to attend to.”

“I know,” comes the angel’s soft reply. “Have you eaten anything? Perhaps we could—” 

Crowley grunts, and turns to pick up the bag he dropped in his furor.

“Already brought you something, figure you haven’t left your little nook here all day,” Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and Crowley would never admit to the flutter in his stomach at the angel’s smile.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins after they have eaten their dinner, lounging once again in their usual chairs. “I wanted to- _apologize_ for what I said earlier,” Aziraphale says, eyes downcast. Crowley stops biting on the end of his chopstick to watch with some amusement the angel struggle through his clearly distressing thoughts.

“It wasn’t the fact that you are, well, a demon, that distressed me. It was that-” Crowley’s gaze drops to the angel’s hands, trembling. Crowley’s own twitches.

“Spit it out, angel,” Crowley mutters without venom. Aziraphale startles, then clears his throat.

“I just, I do not understand why She would choose _me_ , choose _us_ , after everything that happened months ago. I defied her, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice wavers at the words. “I should have, have, well you know. But I didn’t and I don’t know why. We switched bodies to avoid our punishment and no one has bothered to follow up. What if this _is_ that punishment?” 

Crowley goes completely still, pupils dilating ever so slightly behind his glasses as he watches Aziraphale.

“I- I don’t want to get rid of this child,” Crowley’s eyes instinctively drop to the angel’s soft middle, a knot loosening in the demon’s chest at Aziraphale’s words, “but I don’t want them taken from us as some sort of _tool_ in this war.”

The angel’s whole body seems to shudder.

“Crowley, I’m so terribly afraid,” says Aziraphale, lowering his head as though fear were the greatest failure he could ever admit to.

Well this won’t do at all, Crowley decides.

“I know,” Crowley holds up a hand even as Aziraphale’s head snaps up. “Doesn’t make it right, but so you know I only suggested what I did because you seemed so...” Crowley seems to pause, as if gathering himself to Aziraphale’s surprise, his earlier hurt easing away at Crowley’s confession.

He clears his throat, continuing on. “We’ll be a target again, for probably the rest of eternity... or maybe we won’t. You said she had this all planned to unite Heaven and Hell? Doubt She’ll let them roast us just yet. We do have a baby to make and all.” The demon’s lips quirked up, as though this wasn’t the scariest thing to ever happen to him.

(It was).

Aziraphale could cry. How had the Almighty decided he was the best for this?

The thought of how could Crowley sit there so calmly, how he could even _stand_ dealing with him like this slithers through Aziraphale’s mind.

“You must think me such a fool,” Aziraphale stretches a smile across trembling lips, eyes brimming with what would break Crowley’s very spirit to call tears. 

Suddenly, every cable holding Crowley back seems to snap apart. The demon yanks his sunglasses off, rushing over the table to his angel and dropping to the ground at Aziraphale’s feet. Aziraphale blinks, droplets falling from those wide blue eyes as Crowley smiles at him, eye level even like this.

“Fussy and a bit spoiled, perhaps,” Crowley teases with a gentleness Aziraphale has never known from the demon. “Never a fool though, angel.”

Aziraphale breath hitches with a quiet sob. His hands, once resting in his lap are now gently cradled in Crowley’s larger, cooler ones. The angel looks down at their joined hands in awe, completely unaware of Crowley’s eyes still upon him. _He’s never held hands with anyone before._

“I don’t know what to do, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. “How are we going to get through this?” Crowley’s thumb runs along Aziraphale’s hand as he thinks, branding the softness of the angel’s skin to his memory, all the way down into his marrow.

“...There is something we can start with.”

Aziraphale glances up, surprised to see Crowley’s fully golden eyes staring back at him.

“Marry me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes the people (and supernatural beings) in our lives possess more social grace than we do. Whether it is an awkwardly delivered joke about the metro being late for the third day in a row, or a white lie that is about to be called out right in front of one’s already irate boss, we all have been at the mercy of another person’s ability to let certain things slide.

Aziraphale has not moved. Neither has Crowley. Outside of this place Aziraphale's called home for centuries, cars are still driving in the now falling rain, and the street noise rushes along in a dull murmur.

All that noise is out there past his safe bookshop walls, and so could Crowley’s words if Aziraphale could just get past the rushing in his ears long enough to _let this slide_.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, every ounce of propriety he has saturating the name, proud of himself for not trembling. “Surely you jest.”

Crowley's mouth twitched, tightening his grip on Aziraphale’s hands before relaxing ever so slightly. “No angel, I’m not.”

 _Not about to let it slide, then_ , Aziraphale thinks hysterically. He tries again.

“Marriage is--”

“Is what, angel?” Crowley’s lip curls, yellow eyes glinting. “A heavenly institution, too _holy_ for this demon to propose? Where’s the law saying it’s forbidden for a demon and an angel to wed? From Her? The one that put a combination of _both_ inside you?”

Aziraphale frowned, rather nonplussed at the description. He watched Crowley sigh, adjusting from his position on the floor but not bothering to rise from it. It made Aziraphale’s chest squirm, and he wasn’t sure if with pleasure or embarrassment.

“Look Aziraphale,” his name sounds heavy on Crowley’s tongue. “If _She_ is doing all this, then She must know this was going to come up. Her rubber stamped endorsement down here is the best source of protection we’re gonna get, especially for you don’t you think?”

In times like these, Aziraphale remembers that Crowley wasn’t always a demon, and that for logic’s sake he is right, but that doesn’t make it easier. He doesn’t want to think about this. Any of it.

He doesn’t want Crowley proposing for his protection.

 _A marriage of convenience_ , he thinks tiredly. _What an eternity ahead of me_.

“I think it would be best if you got some rest, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, not trusting his voice to keep his thoughts concealed. Crowley’s unblinking eyes only stare back.

He looks away, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“It has been a long day for both of us with this… news. Perhaps after that, we can figure something else out, once you--” he stops, unable to fight the sudden closing of his throat. 

_Once you realize asking me is a mistake._

The demon knelt there, still watching him.

“Do you think I’m proposing unaware of _what it is?_ ” Crowley asks not unlike a hammer dropping right onto a nail. Aziraphale winces.

 _Yes. No. I am not quite sure, I just know that I don’t fully know what you’re actually proposing here with this literal proposal._ Aziraphale desperately thinks at Crowley. Instead of answering he takes a breath and shakes his head.

 _What is marriage to a demon, anyways?_ No that doesn’t quite sound right.

 _What is marriage to Crowley?_ He is almost afraid to know, and it is through no fault of his dear friend at all.

“I- I just need some time, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. Yes that would work for now. Time. Maybe another millennia's worth.

(He’s forgetting about the _situation_ , but will remember in a moment).

“...Ah,” Crowley said, the heavy air in the room immediately dissipating to Aziraphale’s shock. “All you needed to say angel.” Aziraphale nearly collapses with relief as Crowley rises from his kneeling to take a step back, no longer the only figure in Aziraphale’s field of vision.

Then, Crowley stands there. A beat passes.

Aziraphale groans, wanting to look heavenward but scared of what - or _who_ \- might be watching from up there. “I meant _alone_ , Crowley.”

“Ah, right,” Crowley’s voice takes on a softer edge, pausing, before turning halfway towards the door. He makes an odd hand gesture Aziraphale has never seen before with his thumb and little finger. “Well, will you… call me if you need anything?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale, unaware of why the question sets his heart aflutter. Well, he knows _why_ but--

“Good,” Crowley dips his chin and Aziraphale can feel those yellow eyes piercing through their black lenses before a grin twists the demon’s mouth, just a small one. “Don’t wait until you’re ready to pop before giving me a shout, yeah?”

( _Now_ he remembers).

Aziraphale would have laughed if he wasn’t so terribly afraid all of a sudden.

“Yes, yes of course,” He pulls himself up from the plush chair, making a big show of shooing the demon from his shop, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours Crowley leaves the bookshop. This time however it is as Aziraphale waves goodbye to him from the door, watching Crowley lope across the street towards his horribly parked Bentley. Its engine flares to life in the presence of its master, lights beaming into the dark.

He chuckles when Crowley shakes his head, snapping his fingers to vanish the wheel clamps, and it all suddenly feels normal.

About to close the door, Aziraphale looks back to catch Crowley turn around, standing in the rain. He doesn’t seem to be waiting, Aziraphale guesses. Had it been anyone else, the angel would have even called it hesitation.

Then, as if Crowley could hear his thoughts over the roar of London’s rain, the demon is ducking into his Bentley and driving away.

* * *

The clock on his cell phone says it is Friday, but he cannot help wondering how long it really has been. He double checks his watch, idly entertaining the question of if he should replace the rotted out battery for the watch's sake.

_Nah._

It has been six days since Crowley learned he was going to be a parent. Five days have passed without word from Aziraphale.

Which is _fine_ , he tells himself.

This has been on loop in his head for about three days now.

Despite the undeniable fact that he is a demon meant to instill despair and hopelessness or whatever they require nowadays, despite that he barely escaped the Apocalypse and own demise solely due to the help of others, Crowley is above all else still an optimist at heart.

But even this is pushing it, he concedes, throwing his hands up to nothing in particular. Who knew that him making a simple proposal could upset more than the _Almighty_ deciding that a demon... angel... _something_ child was a good idea.

Crowley, not wanting to be in his flat wearing a hole in the floor, is instead walking down one of the sidewalks of Mayfair. With his usual degree of humility Crowley has been spending the morning appreciating his good sense all those centuries ago to invest in the disgustingly wealthy area. Had he been a significantly less interesting demon, the kind that enjoys picking at individual souls for eternity, he would find Mayfair to be an endless bounty waiting for him to choose from.

Tempting sounds like a tiring way to spend the day anyways. 

He halts traffic by turning every street light in a mile radius to red. As cars slam on their brakes around him sending the surrounding streets into pure gridlock, he jaywalks, weaving between honking drivers without a care.

Almost wishing to stay if only to hear the gnashing of everyone’s teeth, Crowley resists, deciding his time could better be spent ingesting a tremendous amount of alcohol in a short amount of time.

There is a vibration in his jacket's pocket suddenly. Pulling his phone out Crowley catches the flicker of a notification come through that nearly stops his heart.

Unlocking the phone reveals it to just be another assignment from Hell, marked as ‘Low Priority’. Nowadays it seems to be the only type that come to him. 'No rush', he can hear Hell's deputies whispering through each pixel making up the letters on the screen.

He'll swallow his tongue before he admits to hoping it was an incoming call from a certain someone.

So, he refocuses, Hell was still afraid of him - good. Crowley flicks his tongue across the backs of his teeth before pocketing the device. Miraculously he has appeared before one of his favorite bars, and with a tip of his chin to the departing man that is holding the door for him, Crowley figures he may as well get started on the whole drinking part of his day.

* * *

Compared to Aziraphale, it might seem that Crowley is handling his newfound limbo with remarkable ease. After all, it is like he said: he is indeed an optimistic demon - as much as one can be. He also isn’t the one required to carry this child, which despite his interest in the whole matter probably is making him feel as though he dodged a rather large holy bullet.

Yet there is a fragility to his resolve that is slowly unraveling as the days wear on, a dread he can be seen resisting as he orders yet another drink from the bartender.

Back several months ago when Crowley was hurtling 110 MPH across the M25, he was keeping the Bentley together by sheer imagination that everything was running smoothly and without a single hitch. He couldn’t even feel the fire, his persuasive skills were so impressive.

So if we were to compare this week to Crowley’s daring drive on the M25, you might think that the whole situation with Aziraphale would be the car on fire that Crowley is convinced is going just fine.

You would be, unfortunately, very wrong.

This time, Crowley is not just the one driving a flaming car down M25 pretending everything is fine, he is also the Bentley itself raging against its driver, a hulking behemoth of melting rubber and steel just a single loose thought from catastrophe.

It has been six days so far of Crowley driving a flaming car _and_ being a flaming car on the M25 of life, and he is beyond exhausted.

A hand goes up, ordering another drink.

* * *

He should have taken at least one more drink before he left that bar.

Crowley is home just after from his latest successful temptation, stripping off his clothing during his slow stagger to the bedroom. Just as he falls onto his perfectly made bed, the phone rings.

Without bothering to look - there is only one person that bothers to call him anyways - Crowley brings the phone to his ear, fighting the sleep creeping into the corners of his eyes.

He clears his throat. "What, Aziraphale?"

_"Yes."_

* * *

By the time Saturday afternoon finally rolls around, they have secured a priest willing to perform the rites on such short notice. The generous donation Crowley offers to the secretary makes them scoff, but ended the call promising to call the priest in at once.

By the time Saturday evening creeps in, Aziraphale has already managed to suppress three near fits of panic.

Aziraphale, shocked at first by the rapid turnaround Crowley was pursuing, weakly asked if there was a reason they couldn’t have an… _engagement_ of sorts.

He had watched Crowley halt his racing around the bookshop to look at Aziraphale with a frown.

”How long an engagement you wanting, angel?” Crowley leaned a bit in. “A _year_?”

So, here they were.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice dropped low enough to send a shiver up Aziraphale’s back, cutting into his wool gathering. They are walking towards the church up its cobblestone walkway while the Bentley was parked - at Aziraphale’s request - legally in a nearby lot. He can feel Crowley’s hand possibly hovering somewhere near his lower back. 

Not touching, but still there. Just a possibility, though.

“You always have a choice, y’know,” the demon continues, his tall frame arcing slightly into Aziraphale’s space to the angel’s fluster.

 _A choice._ It might be true, maybe, but does he really? As a servant of God he is not granted the same liberties as humanity is, as what the demons lost their Grace to have, or rather the illusion thereof.

Aziraphale swallowed, resisting the urge to adjust his collar. He could feel Crowley’s hair brushing against his ear as the wind fluttered around them. They have arrived exactly twenty minutes early, so they stand outside the church doors for a reprieve.

If Aziraphale could remain calm, this might even be the ideal chance to actually _discuss_ some things. Wedding day - evening - things. Whatever happy couples-to-be talk about.

(Maybe this whole child business).

Most likely not, however, so he gives up before he tries. “Marriage…” he begins trying not to bore even himself, “is a covenant between two people before the Almighty to--”

“On with it, angel,” Crowley interrupts, waving his hand impatiently. Aziraphale scowls at the demon, then forges on.

“It is meant to be a promise between two people - _beings -_ ” he quickly corrects as Crowley’s mouth opens. “To - to remain committed and _faithful_ and, and,” and now he’s running out of steam, wanting to say it but terrified of the answer he might get. Of the possibility that Crowley might already know all this and have decided it was actually better to remember that he was, in fact, a demon and therefore _incapable_ of such things.

Had Crowley been an angel, his sudden insight into Aziraphale’s stuttering would be considered merciful.

"Not this again! Do you doubt me ssssstill?" Crowley hisses mercilessly making Aziraphale jump. The demon crosses his arms, stretching to full height and yet never moving closer, not a centimeter into the angel’s space.

"I let you borrow my _body_ , angel, just as you let me borrow yours - or did you forget that little conundrum a couple months ago?” Crowley is picking up speed now, Aziraphale noted with an impassive glare. “I don’t know what in my past is causing this but--"

The demon suddenly stops breathing, halting his diatribe, and Aziraphale feels his own unnecessary breath pause. Crowley reached up, pinching the bridge of his long nose, nudging his glasses enough for Aziraphale to see the demon’s eyes are tightly shut.

They stand there in the cool night, Aziraphale looking up at Crowley, suddenly unsure of what to say.

Crowley drops his hand, an earnest edge to his tired voice. "I can be true, Aziraphale. I would be, to you that is."

_And therein lay the crux of Aziraphale’s concerns. How the demon, without even realizing it, always managed to see through him so easily Aziraphale would never know._

“...Well then,” Aziraphale begins against a sudden pressure expanding through his chest, the longing to believe Crowley threatening to overtake him. “I... suppose so long as we are in agreement…”

“Right,” Crowley breathes, arms hanging limp at his sides. They stand there outside the church for a brief moment longer, it has only been ten minutes.

Crowley starts up again. “You got a ring then, I suppose? Anything more stylish than one from the eighth century?” Aziraphale tsks, rolling his eyes even as said ring weighs heavy in his breast pocket. He brings a hand to cover it without thinking, unaware that Crowley’s gaze followed his movement.

“It will suffice, even for someone of your unusual tastes,” Aziraphale deflects primly.

Aziraphale does not know how to tell Crowley that for hours he agonized over what ring to give the demon. He pulled out drawers upon drawers filled with items of sentimental value he’s collected over the years. Nothing was truly of monetary value, he was not one for gems or gold, but there was meaning in these baubles, these blank notebooks and filigree engraved pens.

(They were all from Crowley - or at least, the vast majority were - excluding what he had bought himself during their periods of separation).

How exactly does he explain that for hours he sat on the floor in despair, unable to find in stores or books a piece of jewelry that would match the sophistication someone like Crowley deserved. Everything would undoubtedly be the subject of mockery by the demon, he had bemoaned, until Aziraphale looked at his own hand before it came to slap his forehead.

_He had been made with this ring, the Almighty sung his corporeal form into being with this on it six thousand years ago. When he first opened his eyes on Earth it was there on his right little finger, and has been ever since._

_The idea of Crowley wearing the one piece of jewelry Aziraphale owns, what he was formed with, strikes a chord right through his spirit. In the other dimension, his wings flutter around him, lighter than air._

_Carefully he pulls it off his hand, and the pale skin underneath goes light pink from the sudden exposure._

_With a quiet miracle on his lips Aziraphale blinks, opening his eyes to see the ancient ring hesitantly reshape itself. A smile forms on his face as the ring settles into its new form, now a white gold wedding band with a grooved line running around its polished equator. He lifts it up, examining it in the light, and notes with surprise there is now an ouroboros etched along the inside._

_Eternity. How fitting._

_Nodding with satisfaction, Aziraphale considers it a miracle well done._

Tapping his breast pocket in present time, he still considers it so.

Now he can only hope Crowley finds it worthy of adornment.

Clearing his throat, he glances up at Crowley who has now taken on the expression of someone rather nonplussed at being kept waiting, like a child on their birthday wanting to skip right to presents.

He thinks of Warlock. “You will see it inside,” Aziraphale says stiffly, bringing his hand back down as a clenched fist to belie his sudden nervousness.

“And how about you, hm?” Aziraphale challenges, raising a brow. He can admit to being marginally (exceedingly) curious to what Crowley had picked up. Something ostentatious no doubt.

Crowley makes a show of fishing through his pockets as if he had misplaced it, grinning when Aziraphale sighs. During the bluster Crowley performs, he takes a moment to admire the demon, dressed rather smartly in a dark pinstripe suit impossibly tailored to his frame. He wears no other adornment, not even his watch. His hair is loosely pulled back from his angular face in a simple black hair tie, revealing his fine cheekbones and the tattoo dark at his temple. Aziraphale indulges himself for a moment, appreciating the effort Crowley seems to have made.

It is their wedding day after all.

“Aha,” Crowley finally says, reaching into an inner coat pocket to pull out--

_My word._

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathes looking at the gleaming ring, perfect in its pure simplicity, between Crowley’s outstretched fingers. “That’s... that’s _lovely_. Wherever did you find it?”

He risks a glance past the ring to Crowley, and even with the sunglasses on, the demon looks like he is about to be sick.

* * *

Not too interesting a question, is it.

Yet Crowley finds himself struggling to pull together in front of Aziraphale. He pockets the ring again, muttering that he miracled it into existence. It wasn’t a lie, he would never do such a thing to Aziraphale, and the angel nonetheless seems pleased if the smile crinkling his eyes was anything to go by. Crisis averted, Crowley lets relief flood his system at the angel needing no further explanation over why he could miracle such a flawless ring.

_After all, how does Crowley explain to Aziraphale that before his fall he was no soldier of God, rather a blacksmith with an eternally lit forge of his own design. That he crafted the blades used in the Rebellion for both sides, each one honed to damning exquisiteness no matter the wielder._

_Is there even a way to tell someone, how upon an anvil deep within a still empty universe, he willed the very stars into existence with just a hammer, that he set them alight with a holy fire right from his chest._

_Therefore Crowley, because all this humiliating information would need to be said in order for Aziraphale to understand, cannot find a way to tell the angel where and how this ring truly came into being._

_That sometime late last night after receiving Aziraphale's call, in the mire of his gloomy flat, Crowley sat frustrated by his inability to find a ring online good enough for an eternal marriage. Crowley sulked for hours, staring into the night until, suddenly, he reached up, fingers digging past his flesh into his occult form, and from his right iris he plucked out a thin golden circle._

_Deep into the night he hammered this ring into being, tempering it to perfection with fire called from his throat._

It is the first time he’s crafted in over six millennia. It will be the only thing to ever be forged from his own body.

And Aziraphale will wear it.

* * *

At Aziraphale’s side stood Crowley, or as still as the demon could on consecrated ground. Rocking back and forth on his heels Crowley immediately hissed and squirmed when they finally entered the church. Aziraphale paused for a moment in reverence, taking in the orange glow from the prayer candles all around, the cared for alter down the aisle; it was a modest, nondescript church but there was a genuine love here. 

Crowley softly cursed.

“Perhaps you should try sitting in a pew, my dear?” Aziraphale offered, guilt gnawing at his stomach while watching Crowley attempt to preserve his dignity. He wondered after the priest, willing the person to hurry up and arrive, if only to ease Crowley’s discomfort.

Crowley huffed, adjusting his tie (a line of soft white down his dark suit, Aziraphale just noticed) while he jumped onto the tips of his toes. “And set my arse on fire? Feet is bad enough, angel, can’t imagine what a pew will do to me.”

“Forgive me,” came the rather breathless voice of the church’s evening priest, walking out from the side door while smoothing down their muted robes. “I had to get the certificate written up and could not find my wax seal.” Aziraphale sharply glances over to Crowley, who only shrugs with a grin.

“No worries!” Crowley calls, voice high as he sauntered quickly over to the priest. “Let’s get this party started. I’m ready for all that fun matrimony I hear you lot going on about.” Aziraphale watches as the demon pulls a slip of paper from his pocket handing it off to the priest. Befuddled, the priest scans it briefly, glances back at Aziraphale, then follows the demon to the altar.

Aziraphale feels his stomach flop, the ring burning a hole in his breast pocket, and followed suit.

* * *

It has been, so far, an uneventful ceremony compared to the few weddings Aziraphale has witnessed. Crowley has not kept still for a moment during it and, bless the priest, they have not mentioned it once.

Aziraphale, unaffected by burning feet, would like to enjoy the ceremony but all he can think about is staying calm long enough to get through it without passing out. His very own wedding and he is barely aware of what is being said. It is tragic and a part of him resists calling it _unfair_.

The priest suddenly pauses to take a breath, glancing up from their book. When they spoke again, Aziraphale dimly noted their words were a little different than usual vows. From what little he knew of vows, that is.

“Please present your rings,” the priest calls for. Aziraphale jerks, glancing somewhere around the general area of Crowley’s chest, before reaching into his breast pocket and pulling the ring out at last to a sharp intake of breath from Crowley. He hears the demon’s coat rustle with his movements, watching as that gleaming ring is brought back into his view.

“May your gifting of these rings be more than the mere exchanging of property,” the priest continues and Aziraphale knows for certain this is off script. “In all things remember your spouse, and when times are difficult, let your ring be a reminder of what will always be between one another.”

He doesn’t know what that is all supposed to mean, but Aziraphale feels his hand being taken by Crowley, and his whole body goes still.

Crowley gently slides the ring onto Aziraphale's finger in one smooth motion, the demon’s thumb lingering to run along the smooth skin just above the band of gold and Aziraphale feels as though Crowley is speaking another language. It is something almost louder than spoken words, but Aziraphale cannot quite hear it.

At last his hand is lowered and he returns the gesture cringing through his awkward handling, but Crowley says nothing while Aziraphale fumbles the ring onto Crowley’s finger.

Seeing it there now it has never looked more at home, and Aziraphale wonders why he did not give it to Crowley earlier. He glances up at Crowley, surprised to see the demon looking right at him. There is a shifting, and suddenly both of Aziraphale’s hands are resting in Crowley’s. He frowns, confused, but Crowley only quirks a brow sending a flush right across his cheeks.

There is a rustling of paper.

“Today, before God and yourselves, be welcomed into the joy of Holy Matrimony that arises from the pure unification of two souls in love.” The priest’s steady voice pulls Aziraphale from his thoughts. “May the love that joins you today always be found between you, and sustain your marriage from here into eternity.” Aziraphale, rather choked up by it all, is about to thank the priest when--

“Feel free to seal your vows with a kiss.”

* * *

The first ever recorded kiss in history has been subject to intense debate for as long as humanity could send each other angry letters about anything it was possible to argue about.

Some claim the first ever was upon the high steps of a famous noble’s house in ancient Greece, meant to signify a welcome home. Others say farther back, to a pair of farmer sisters celebrating rain arriving after a long drought beseech Babylonia. And some shock the crowd to go even farther back, into Mesopotamia but that the floods washed all traces away so don’t ask us to prove it.

_It happened well before then, if you must know._

_However, only a single bleary-eyed clerk in Heaven bore witness to this event, promptly stuffed the report into a filing cabinet somewhere in the Virtues’ department and wrote it off as another annotation on the peculiarities of humanity. When asked later on the angel could not recall which filing cabinet, they had long since rotated out of that office after all. Frustrating, but there is a lot of paperwork in there._

So in all fairness, these argued over kisses did happen. They mean different things, yes, however they are still indeed kisses.

_But._

There is _one_ type of kiss that throughout history has transcended all others.

* * *

Crowley has turned to him and - had Aziraphale possessed the ability - he would have stopped time just then. Whether to run away or let this happen was not the debate, he was nothing if not committed to this endeavor, after all.

No, he would freeze them all if for a moment to let his eyes linger across Crowley’s handsome face, his thin smile lit by the warm glow of a hundred church candles. If he could, Aziraphale would live forever within this moment, before everything changed forever. Before their friendship and the hope he has longed kept inside for it to be _more,_ vanished completely. 

(Aziraphale has only ever wondered about kissing in the context of one other person, and alright _fine_ he was also a bit nervous to at last find out).

Time did not stop, despite Aziraphale's wishes, but it did seem to slow down. He watched Crowley go very still, as though the church grounds no longer burned him, as though the demon was facing down Goliath himself. He watched Crowley slowly lean down, their hands still entwined, metal bands glinting in the candlelight. The last thing he sees before closing his eyes was Crowley come closer, pausing for just a moment, then pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s.

_Oh._

It was over before Aziraphale could even react. There was no time to appreciate how _soft_ Crowley’s mouth was when upon his, but it was everything he never knew it could be, an ache like no other blooming in his heart.

Crowley was all too soon pulling away taking Aziraphale’s breath with him. He opens his eyes to see Crowley already turning back to the congratulatory priest with that wide grin he gives religious people. A hand comes across Aziraphale’s back to clamp onto his shoulder, pulling him closer. 

He’s fairly certain he’s entered a fever dream.

“Well then! Thank you very much for your uh _patronage_ , donation will be in the post,” Crowley tips an imaginary hat to the priest, back to his walking on the beach step routine with more energy than before.

“Wait - “ The priest starts weakly, pointing behind them to the altar. “The- the signatures...” But Crowley still has a lanky arm over Aziraphale’s stiff shoulders, steering them both away. “Sounds good thank you! Take care!” Crowley is practically racing them out of the church into the cool night air, snapping his fingers to slam the doors behind them.

“Oh _finally_ ,” Crowley gasped letting go of Aziraphale, nearly doubling over as he staggered into the courtyard. “My feet are burnt to a crisp by now.”

Aziraphale winced, watching Crowley shake his limbs back to life, having forgotten during the ceremony how much discomfort Crowley must have been in. Holy wounds are not as simple as miracling away a normal burn; the poor fellow is going to be limping for a while.

(He tried not to read too much into the fact that Crowley has _twice_ braved a church for him, and fails miserably).

Reaching up a hand towards Crowley’s hunched shoulders, he smiles when the demon lifts his head. “We still need to walk to the car, Crowley.”

Crowley grumbles, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. “Thank you for the reminder angel,” he jerks his head. “Let’s go.” Aziraphale falls into step at Crowley’s side, and wonders if it was inappropriate to take the demon’s hand.

 _We’re married after all._ But there is the pressing _not really_ waiting to stamp Aziraphale’s thoughts back into place.

He gets his answer when Crowley loops their arms together, resting Aziraphale’s left hand on his right arm. Despite Crowley’s slower than normal strides, it is a pleasant walk down the courtyard.

“So we are off now,” Aziraphale says, mood lifted. They reach the car, for once parked without a single ticket, clamp, or angry letter on it.

Crowley looks down at him, opening the passenger door. “Get in, angel.”

“What did you hand the priest before we... went to the altar?” Aziraphale finds himself asking as the first official question of their marriage, tugging the seat-belt across his front.

Crowley grunts absently, turning the car back on and pulling into the street faster than the legal limit, appropriate driving etiquette over with. “The names to put on the certificate.” Aziraphale nodded. Seems reasonable enough, he thinks while gripping his seat tightly as Crowley swerves through traffic.

 _Wait._ “But we left the certificate!”

“Oh, yeah. What do you say to a dinner at the Ritz?” Crowley hisses, arm thrown over the steering wheel sending Aziraphale’s eyes right to the gleaming band on his ring finger.

Aziraphale tears his eyes away, aware Crowley is waiting for an answer. “Whatever for?”

He must have said something wrong, as Crowley bodily turns to look at him, ignoring the road, face blank. 

Great, he’s off to an _amazing_ start with this whole marriage business.

“...You ever even been to a wedding?” Crowley begins slowly. “Disgustingly lavish affairs, great parties. Lots of food, good wine sometimes, y’know those two things you enjoy right after books. Maybe before depending on the day.”

Aziraphale nods, unsure of where this is going.

Crowley presses on. “They’re a _celebration,_ ” somehow he manages to hiss the word, “and we should abide by tradition, yes?”

“Ah well. Yes of course. Celebration and all,” Aziraphale concedes haltingly, embarrassed all of a sudden and unsure why. Crowley nods, looking infinitely pleased at getting one over on Aziraphale, and with a powerful jerk of the steering wheel does a u-turn right in the middle of traffic.

Crowley, clearly ignoring Aziraphale’s yelling and still not believing traffic laws or booking a reservation were things he should endure, presses on the gas.

* * *

It was almost midnight when they returned to the bookshop. Dinner was an interesting affair, rather stilted with Aziraphale unable to drink and Crowley not wanting to in the angel’s presence.

Still, after their food arrived, Aziraphale perked up significantly and their wedding dinner went off without a hitch, as though nothing had happened earlier in the evening, like an eternal marriage. Amazing considering every time they reached for something their rings would clang against it, but that will take some getting used to.

Crowley swung open the door, ushering a now well-fed Aziraphale over the threshold with more strength than one would expect. “Home sweet bookshop,” he crooned and Aziraphale waved him away, huffing out a laugh. With a sigh of contentment Aziraphale pulled off his coat, a pure white Edwardian thing he rarely ever gets to take out.

 _White on his wedding day_ , he thinks, running a thumb over the elegant gold buttons along its frock. _How traditional._

“Best get some rest, shouldn’t we,” Crowley says from across the room, undoing his tie.

“Wanna head upstairs?”

Aziraphale freezes unsure if he just heard that right, before turning to Crowley who is still struggling with the tie and cursing at it and unaware of the angel's eyes on him.

“Upstairs?” He asks softly, pulse quickening.

Crowley yanks the tie off at last, throwing it over a chair. “Yeah, to bed. Both of us need some rest and didn’t She imply you better start learning how to sleep for _reasons_?” Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, a buzzing noise increasing in volume in his head.

Crowley tilts his head. "Aziraphale?"

 _Think of something!_ “N-no bedroom... remember Crowley?” The demon turned fully to look at him now, or seemed to from behind his sunglasses.

They both stand there. Crowley raises a hand.

_Snap._

“Looks like you have one now, angel,” Crowley quipped, lowering his hand, and the demon’s gently teasing tone sends a wave of anxiety through Aziraphale. 

This is a wedding night,he numbly remembers, going very pale.

He then shook his head, aware that Crowley was now watching him with a curious expression. There was no expectation for human behaviors between both of them.

Right?

Aziraphale stubbornly dodged the fact they joined together in a rather human marriage, which is kind of the only one out there.

He also tried to avoid the idea of _Crowley_ wanting _that_ on his wedding night... even if he would have to settle for Aziraphale, now that he had made a commitment and couldn’t with anyone else.

Like a lance the thought slashed through his mind and Aziraphale briefly shut his eyes against the hurt of it, wondering why he just did that to himself.

 _It’s just Crowley,_ he chided, fighting the urge to look down at his feet, still not sure of why he was suddenly so anxious. They have known each other for ages, they were _friends._

Only Crowley has never been just anything to Aziraphale, has he? 

Aziraphale sighed, twisting the ring again, before glancing up at Crowley. The demon is looking away, back towards the stairs and shrugging his suit jacket off in one fluid motion.

“Wanna check out the renovations?” Crowley asks, nodding them both towards the stairs. There’s nothing different about him, standing there waiting for Aziraphale. Despite the wedding band on his finger he is still indeed Crowley, and Aziraphale sinks his comfort into this fact.

_It’s just Crowley._

He follows Crowley up the stairs, idly curious as to what a bedroom miracled into existence by the demon would look like. If it was anything like his cold flat they were going to have _words_.

Aziraphale opens the door, unable to stop the sudden gasp.

It is a rather simple room, almost cosy with a sense of effort the angel can’t quite place. Illuminated softly by the glow of two lamps on matching nightstands, the large bed is downed with several blankets and piled with soft pillows, some clearly pulled from Aziraphale’s own storage to his delight. Comfort, not aesthetic, was the intention here, and it makes Aziraphale’s chest ache.

“I’m going to head downstairs for a bit,” Crowley’s voice slides through the air, and Aziraphale turns to see him leaning against the door-frame. He snaps his fingers to dim the lights around them to just below the ideal brightness for reading and it makes Aziraphale smile.

Aziraphale turns back around to admire the pale glow of moonlight peeking in through the window curtains now. “Don’t be long now,” he calls, feigning a confidence he lacked. “I want to get a start on this whole sleeping business you rave about.”

“Yeah,” he heard Crowley mutter. “I’ll just be a minute.”

* * *

Crowley waited until Aziraphale was safely behind the bedroom door before he sprinted downstairs on slightly burnt snakeskin feet nearly tripping himself over a stack of books. _Spoiled angel and his endless pile of books,_ he cursed without any venom.

Swinging himself into a chair and throwing his feet up on the low table, Crowley dropped his head back, miracling an open bottle of wine into his hand and, after toasting to the empty room, downing it without taking a breath. It is the first time he’s been able to sit still in days.

The cold metal of his wedding ring felt heavy, and he could see it reflecting the soft shop lights as he tipped the bottle back again. 

He was a bit scared to look at the ring, if he were honest. Anything from an angel, especially one like Aziraphale, was sure to be too holy for someone like him.

Pulling another dreg from the bottle tasted almost as bad as the acid bubbling up his throat. Human bodies and their overreactions to _not stress._ Did they have any idea how lucky they were? A hundred years and their issues were gone. Poof.

One hundred years was nothing to their kind, neither was six thousand. They existed long before that, even before the concept of time began. (Crowley, if he was keeping track which he wasn’t, even existed quite a bit longer than Aziraphale has; gotta have some around to build Heaven and all).

Crowley could suddenly see why the angel – his _husband_ , something inside him offered – was petrified of all things different. Why Crowley’s endless styles through the ages had prompted such resistance from Aziraphale. This wasn’t a two-hundred year old coat or a poetry book from ancient Rome, sentimental relics Aziraphale had decided to bring with him into the future.

What harm was dragging a book through several millennia when something you created can ricochet right into the rest of _eternity_?

Everything they worked for, nearly _died_ for, has gone up in smoke thanks to God deciding that their planned future wasn’t good enough. No longer did Crowley see a future of infinite possibility out from under the thumb of Hell. Instead it was narrowing right before his eyes to the being upstairs fussing about, the being who was once again chained to _Her_.

He could hear Aziraphale’s footsteps upstairs, the angel was pacing a hole right through his head, but perhaps that was really the alcohol making it throb.

As though he was the very earth attempting to pressure coal into a diamond, Crowley sat there trying with all his might to smother his roiling emotions back deep within his condemned spirit. After an hour, he could feel the relentless pressure at last beginning to make the ugly mess of _feelings_ in his chest give way. Taking a breath, Crowley swiped his hand across his face, fingers lingering on his lips, before adopting the casual neutrality he has been sporting since he woke up a week ago.

Right. Back to business.

Was there anything else they needed to do tonight? Married, now what? Wait for this baby to be born and _then what--_

“…Crowley?”

His thoughts dissipated at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice floating down from upstairs. The emotional diamond he’d been trying to create in his chest turned to dust. 

Aziraphale, who he had married today, was still waiting for him, the other half to his eternity.

Crowley knew there was more to be done, a lot more. But it could wait just a bit longer, maybe. The only thing he wanted to do tonight was sprawl next to Aziraphale up in that new bedroom until morning broke on the rest of the coming year and whatever followed. Or at least sit there with him, and hear the angel talk again.

With a peace in his chest he hadn’t possessed before, Crowley sobered up.

“Coming, angel,” he called back, wincing at the sour taste in his mouth. Slowly he took one last look around the empty bookshop before hopping out of the chair, heading up the stairs to have their first night as a wedded couple.

(This was going to be _weird_ , Crowley knew. There were supposed _expectations_ to wedding nights, to marriages in general. Which apparently even angels knew given that all it took was one look at Aziraphale when Crowley had absently suggested they retire to bed for the demon to realize what his words must have come across as).

Aziraphale, a suddenly heartsick Crowley thought, needed one thing right now. For Crowley, the one between them that hates staying the same, to remain just.

If Crowley could prove to the angel that he was able to remain a constant... perhaps they could get through this.

Yet, against all restraint, Crowley could not stop himself from bringing a hand back to his lips, if just for a moment, before turning the door knob.

He stepped in, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind him. Crowley was unable to do more than smile at Aziraphale’s still form, sitting in the dark at the edge of the bed, slowly spinning the gold wedding band on his finger. His husband had put on what was perhaps the most ridiculous Victorian night robe Crowley had ever seen.

His husband.

“Let’s get some sleep, angel,” Crowley said not yet daring to move closer, slitted pupils fixated on the angel before him.

Aziraphale pale eyes looked up at him through the darkness, and nodded, a nervous smile illuminating his face.

Crowley took a step forward.

And finally, on the seventh day after receiving that fateful letter, Crowley and Aziraphale rest.

* * *

Yes, Crowley was correct.

But, what else other than an eternity at Aziraphale’s side had Crowley actually planned for anyways?


	4. Chapter 4

You would never guess this, if you consider how enormous that bed over in Mayfair was along with those ghastly silk pajamas he wore, but the demon Crowley prefers to sleep in serpentine form. 

If other demons ever bothered to sleep, Crowley’s preference would have been found to be a general consensus among the demons of Hell. Imagine the morale boost upon finding out that their creature body is less complicated and therefore vastly more comfortable for rest.

Work life balance would certainly increase, but that’s on management to encourage.

As the only demon to ever try, though, Crowley’s the _de facto_ opinion to go based off of and the only opinion he really cares about anyways. For him, the appeal of sleeping as a snake is not due to a physical comfort, however.

Rather, it was due to the fact that snakes do not dream.

Not a criticism of _Reptilia_ at all, believe me. Their physical form simply lacks an area of the brain that triggers REM sleep. 

Reason being, we were facing a sentience shortage (what else is new) and someone on the project management team decided that these creatures, if their body temperature drops enough for them to go into a coma, probably would not enjoy dreaming very much anyways.

No feedback from _Reptilia_ on that one just yet. A team over in the Thrones department _is_ working on the survey still but it keeps getting hung up by those with turtle Aspects. Go figure.

* * *

Crowley woke with a gasp, heart pounding in his chest while his occult form hummed within, as though it too was rousing from an already forgotten dream. Or nightmare. He tries to reach for the last wisps of the dream before it’s gone, only to be left behind.

Sitting up, he takes time to bask under the sunlight pouring in through the bedroom windows, closing his eyes as he wills his heart-rate to slow. Having slept above the covers, Crowley was still in his now wrinkled clothing from yesterday. He was even still wearing his dress shoes and with a grimace he pries the sunglasses from his face, blinking rapidly against sudden brightness, the stiff metal having left pressure marks on his nose and temples. Amazing he was able to fall asleep at all.

Stretching with the leisure of a thoroughly warmed snake, Crowley groaned softly as each vertebrae in his back popped - not as fulfilling in human form but it will do.

Outside down below he hears people talking, cars puttering along the busy streets of a Sunday morning in London. Here in the confines of this bedroom he can hear the beat of his mortal heart, the soft breaths of Aziraphale laying next to him-

_Aziraphale._

He whips his gaze down to the angel tucked underneath the covers pulled up to his chin, sleeping soundly. A smile quirks Crowley’s lips before he tears his gaze away to glance across his suddenly too warm self. Yet he finds himself looking out the window and with it’s horrible sunlight that is somehow not an easier choice. So he goes back to looking at Aziraphale.

What’s the harm anyways.

It is simply a curiosity, he excuses. Never before had Crowley seen a sleeping angel, especially one like Aziraphale, with his relaxed face half buried in the pillows, blond curls in disarray. Despite the well-contained persona he projected, Aziraphale never was without a line of concern etched somewhere into his brow. Crowley breathes a chuckle. Even in sleep Aziraphale seems capable of making a fuss.

He felt his own hand reach up, ready to smooth out that ripple of worry from Aziraphale’s brow when the light caught the gold glinting upon his hand.

Right.

He let his hand drop between them, and Aziraphale slept on.

Crowley sat there a moment more, listening to the noise from the street intermingle with the angel’s soft breathing, before he got up and left the room.

Best get started on the rest of eternity.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes to what feels like a brush against his forehead, gentler than a breeze. He breathes in deeply, and for the first time it feels necessary.

“Rise and shine, Aziraphale,” Crowley sounds like he is about to laugh when Aziraphale grumbles, rubbing the unusual sensation of sleep from his eyes. What a peculiar feeling it all is, to fall unconscious without any say in the matter until it decides to release you.

He recalled hearing somewhere it was supposed to refresh you, however, not make one tired. Sitting up takes a great deal more effort than he expected and his body feels heavier than usual. Perhaps it was an acquired skill, he thinks nonplussed, since Crowley clearly shows no signs of the same feeling.

When he finally opens his eyes to glare at Crowley, Aziraphale bites his tongue to stop himself from sucking in a breath.

As though he was a solar eclipse, Crowley had slowly moved into the sunlight pouring through the bedroom window, blocking it from scattering across Aziraphale.

Caught there within the shadow Crowley cast upon him, in a fit of startling honesty he could not ignore Aziraphale might now understand after six thousand years why the First Children never once looked back at Eden.

There is no way for him to _uneat_ the knowledge he now has, is there. Of how it feels to ( _at last, at last_ ) kiss Crowley, to lay beside one another like - _as_ \- husbands. A finality has settled upon him, this morning after their wedding, a type only gained from knowing that which has long been forbidden and for good reason. There is no way back now.

 _An eternity of this ahead of him,_ he reminds himself somberly. Aziraphale closed his still drowsy eyes, the weight of their new reality anchoring itself somewhere behind his corporeal rib cage, and even deeper into his celestial self.

When he opens them, Crowley has made his way to his side of the bed again, sitting down at the edge.

“Knew you’d enjoy sleeping, angel,” Crowley said, smoothing the comforter in apparent self-satisfaction. From what Aziraphale could see the demon was back in his usual dark clothing, the formal wedding suit undoubtedly vanished into the ether.

“...I will admit it does have some merit,” Aziraphale concedes with a soft huff, in sudden shyness pulling the sheets up to cover himself despite his undisturbed nightshirt.

 _You slept in the same bed - be reasonable now,_ he admirably resists the flush threatening to creep into his face.

Crowley, apparently full of energy and oblivious to Aziraphale’s plight jumps up from the bed back to the window he seems oddly drawn towards. Aziraphale watches with mute annoyance the demon shutter the blinds, or rather opening then closing them a few times before shuttering them at last. The brightness in the room eases and Aziraphale sighs in relief.

“Well,” Crowley begins, rocking back onto his heels when nothing else is said, “hurry up and get dressed, lots to do today. Meet you downstairs.”

Without waiting for Aziraphale’s stuttering response he loped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

* * *

“So,” Aziraphale began and Crowley twitched while taking a sip of his coffee. “Did you have anything planned for today?”

When Crowley raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale, he almost feels bad for asking, especially given how… attentive the demon has been already.

Whatever he had been expecting waking up on their first day as a married couple, it wasn’t being greeted with a full English breakfast on a bistro style table he’d never owned before in the middle of his shop. Crowley had been sitting down looking as though nothing was out of the ordinary, and Aziraphale could only smile at it all. He would allow himself to enjoy this one thing from Crowley. And if all else failed, well, friends make each other breakfast all the time don’t they?

_It was a rather decent breakfast._

He refocuses on Crowley, who is rapping thin fingers upon his knee, turning away from his idle perusal of the shop to look at Aziraphale bringing the fork to his mouth. “Depends on what you want, angel. I have nothing on the agenda." Aziraphale breathes slowly through his nose, recalling quite vividly not half an hour ago that Crowley had said there was a lot to do today.

"...I do think we need to start talking about this whole _baby_ business soon.”

Aziraphale rallies himself in time to not choke on the tomato wedge he just swallowed, clearing his throat loudly. He glares at Crowley whose expression is one of pure innocence despite his glasses obscuring what Aziraphale knows are glittering eyes.

“Soon?” Aziraphale sips his juice to smother a cough before spearing the banger on his plate. No more tomatoes today, he decides, aggravated. “From what Her letter stated, we have a year…”

Crowley snorts, not unkindly. “And how long have we been here? On Earth?” Aziraphale frowns slightly, but Crowley continues. “A year is going to go like _that-_ ” he snaps his fingers and Aziraphale watched his orange juice refill.

His lips almost twitch in thanks but he knew better than to say so, choosing to take a sip while Crowley rolls his eyes.

“I must say, it is an interesting choice to, ah, extend things past the usual time,” Aziraphale tries, glancing up at Crowley in time to catch the demon tip his head back barking out a laugh, and it sends a flutter through Aziraphale.

“Glad to know I wasn’t the only one wondering about that,” Crowley cocks his head, reaching to snatch a berry off Aziraphale’s plate. “Never one to do things by Her own book, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale feigns indignation before chuckling softly and being joined by Crowley.

There is something different now, talking about all this.

Perhaps it was that they were discussing things over breakfast, one of Aziraphale’s favorite times of the day in close competition with lunch, dinner, dessert, and also any time there was a tea break happening. Or perhaps it is the surprisingly comforting weight of a ring now on his left hand, put there by the one constant in his life.

With that one constant now stealing a piece of toast, teasing him earlier like they were husbands celebrating the first morning of their marriage, like, like they really were--

He doesn’t look further into it.

Taking the knife in an unsteady hand to smear a generous amount of butter on a slice of toast, Aziraphale hums before replying. “Alright,” he concedes, willing the tremble in his chest to subside. “So we have a year…”

Crowley nods, “Apparently so, but now that you bring it up, there’s not a whole lot that can be done this early. I mean, _really_.”

“That is true,” Aziraphale concedes, taking a bite from his toast and chewing as he thought. Even he knew not a whole lot happened the first few steps of this sort of thing, expecting wasn’t just a euphemism. “I suppose then the most we can do is…” He paused. Now this he was not so sure of, this one day at a time life they were now forced to adopt.

Maybe he can get a book on it, would be appreciated.

“I think we should start with enjoying this breakfast I labored over all morning,” Crowley mocks with an air of fondness, and Aziraphale tuts, but returns to his meal with enthusiasm. “Would be a shame to waste your hard work,” his eyes catch Crowley’s shoulders shake with his low chuckle and the tremble in his chest morphs into something much more peaceful.

This time when the quiet settled, it was like a well-loved blanket upon them both.

* * *

Crowley is watching him.

Aziraphale is aware that Crowley tends to enjoy... _observing_ things, track what he perceives as prey with unblinking serpentine eyes. It was something instinctual to him, Aziraphale could only guess. Once, a couple months ago, while he browsed a bookstore the demon people watched for almost seven hours, barely moving until Aziraphale had returned. It had been a little endearing, the focus his friend could have towards something when he decided to sit still.

Aziraphale, however, did not quite like that snake-like observing focused on him. “Crowley my dear,” he looked up from his paperwork to see Crowley sprawled across the chaise, cheek propped up by a hand. He was clearly bored. “Don’t you have anything better you could be doing?”

Crowley scowled.

“Not allowed to check on you?”

The words sent a shudder of warmth through Aziraphale, before he stamps it down behind an exasperated expression. “Nothing is going to-” he coughs, turning back to his book to hide his blush, “ _show_ in just a couple weeks, Crowley.”

Crowley is mutinously quiet, and Aziraphale hears himself sigh. Shaking his head, Aziraphale removes his spectacles to turn towards-

Aziraphale jumps, craning his neck to see Crowley - _very close all of a sudden,_ he gulps - standing over him looking down through his sunglasses with a frown tugging his mouth.

“It is my job to take care of you,” Crowley says staring at Aziraphale, who is successfully schooling himself against making a complete fool of them both. Then Crowley raises his hand, the ring glittering on a thin finger. “Husband and all, remember?”

Yes, Aziraphale remembers quite vividly the events of yesterday. It bled into this morning cementing into his mind that yes they are now supernatural husbands in a covenant taken in a church before the _Almighty_ -

“Of course,” he replies calmly, looking away from the polished gold of the ring he set on that hand. “I do not believe the word job was involved in the whole - well, husband aspect of this though.” _My word how do others handle this_ , Aziraphale fidgets under the demon’s attention, who has now leaned a bit down into Aziraphale’s space with a grin he wears all too well when he has Aziraphale in an awkward position.

“Oh?” _Good Lord._

“Indeed, I believe - if I remember correctly, the word used was closer to, well,” - love, that was said quite a bit - “matrimony? Marital duty?” He finishes on a high questioning note, glancing back up to Crowley still wearing that ridiculous grin.

Crowley for once does not have a mocking comeback, slinking back to his perch on the chaise, propping his cheek back atop his hand. His grin has relaxed back into his usual frown, and Aziraphale finds he misses it.

“In that case, then let me do my _martial duty,_ angel,” Aziraphale has the feeling that Crowley is not really asking permission.

* * *

The first week of their marriage moves rather slowly, and Crowley is not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He is mostly concerned. Aziraphale ended up sleeping again that night, and the night after that. Oh, and the night after that one. 

“It feels like the right thing to do,” Aziraphale confesses to him on the fifth day of this happening when Crowley brings it up over dinner, having made the angel a reservation at The Ritz to give them a nice change of pace. The demon refrains from mentioning that even he had not slept since that first night, given the stress radiating off of Aziraphale in waves. Aziraphale spent most of the dinner wringing his hands in a way that required every ounce of Crowley’s restraint to not reach for, perhaps hold them still in his own.

Crowley instead let his nails bite into his palms, and is doing so once again later that night, now sitting upon the edge of their bed Aziraphale was tucked into. There was a deep shadowing underneath Aziraphale’s eyes, an invisible weight dragging his shoulders down. In all honesty, the angel looked terrible when the baseline for an angel was 'ray of sunshine' at all times.

The demon drops his eyes to Aziraphale’s middle, but he is too tired to notice the staring at this point, all he clearly cares about is shutting his eyes.

“It- it is nice though, sleeping,” he hears Aziraphale murmur, the angel bedding down underneath the blankets Crowley keeps pulling from storage and adding to. Surely one celestial being doesn't need this many quilts, he thinks without weight, tugging the edge of one higher over Aziraphale’s drowsing form. The angel stirs for a moment at the gesture, before curling into himself.

"Who knew you could not have worries for just a while...?" Aziraphale whispers as his eyes close.

Crowley, unsure of how to reply, says nothing, and in the silence of the bedroom they have shared for almost a week Aziraphale succumbs to sleep once more.

Alright then.

Enough is enough, Crowley decides rolling off the bed. There is something seriously wrong here. It had been obvious watching Aziraphale pore over his paperwork earlier today, the line of his back not as straight as usual.

Now that the angel was finally out of commission, Crowley had the night ahead of him to actually get something done.

While it is not a lie to he does not read books, Crowley still performed perhaps an omission to Aziraphale the angel would never pick up on.

Crowley did read, in fact he greatly enjoyed doing so if you count the comment sections on news articles and igniting the occasional automobile forum flame war. A demon of modern times indeed, Crowley has taken to technology with impressive ease for its efficiency in causing equal amounts of mischief and convenience and this includes digital reading.

The paper version of the whole business was still not in his good - er - _bad_ graces.

However, after the thirtieth article about pregnancy yielding only information about how hormones trigger growth and a rather excessive series of horrific ailments, Crowley was finding his Internet browsing skills to be failing him.

Did Aziraphale even have hormones? Crowley rolled the scenario through his head before determining that particular conversation would last forever as he would have to learn everything about the topic in order to explain it to Aziraphale’s satisfaction and then they _still_ wouldn’t have the answer.

He’s getting a headache thinking about it all this late at night, Crowley rubs his temple, groaning. Another article closed under the swipe of a finger.

With very little to go on, Crowley resigns himself to his least favorite activity. Treading over to Aziraphale’s desk, he let his fingertips slide across the well-loved wood before picking up that garish purple book.

Breathing in deeply as though he were a convict before the gallows, Crowley sat down in Aziraphale’s creaky chair and began to read.

His brow quirks at the title. How ominous. He likes it already, maybe he should give books another chance.

It takes him an hour to throw the book back onto the desk in defeat.

While alarmingly open-minded of a book with its plethora of information on changes that happen to both the carrying parent and child, even this one did not cover anything that could be impacting Aziraphale so early in the pregnancy.

In conclusion there’s nothing in there that explains what is happening, and he exiles books back to his least favorite things. Crowley finds himself sagging in the chair, dropping his head back and closing his eyes, mentally he is back up in the bedroom standing at the foot of the bed Aziraphale lays in, watching the angel resting through the night as he turns over the situation his mind.

 _‘It’s not even been a month, it barely exists right now and yet he can barely keep his eyes open,’_ he bites on his thumb, and jumping up on quiet snake skinned feet he begins to pace. The book _did_ mention the first trimester was the most critical for growth, yet even humans do not undergo something this suddenly, most don’t even know they are pregnant just weeks after conception.

Crowley bites back a hiss. How could a celestial being have so much trouble making _another_ celestial being?

 _It is to be yours as well, Crowley,_ Aziraphale had said.

Then, an idea struck louder than a thunderclap.

He darts up the stairs quickly, halting to open the door with the slow turn of the handle so as not to wake Aziraphale - not that the angel could be woken anyways - but it mattered to Crowley.

Crowley moves closer to the bed until his shins bump the frame, and raising his sunglasses from his eyes, Crowley concentrates. His pupils contract to mere black lines, then bloom wide until no yellow remains, and his gaze blurs.

Since the beginning of their friendship he has respected Aziraphale’s privacy - and his own occult form’s sight - by not looking into the other dimension to view Aziraphale in all his heavenly glory, but surely this is a situation that calls for it.

After a moment, his vision sharpens to now reveal where Aziraphale lays as a being of soft light, and Crowley forgets to keep breathing.

He had known, from his time in Heaven that principalities possessed forms are much closer - but not _quite_ \- to humanity's. Reason being, he recalls, was for allowing them easier travels upon Earth once it was to be created. Aziraphale’s true form was larger than the bed, but in respect to how his physical body was positioned curling into himself, so too had his celestial body curled up enough to just barely fit.

 _‘Even his spirit rests,’_ he wondered, not daring to come closer lest Aziraphale instinctively pick up on an occult presence and wake up. Surely the fact his immortal spirit rest - something not even human spirits did during sleep - was a sign he wasn’t imagining things.

He tilted his head, trying to expand his pupils even further but knowing he was at the limit while in his physical form. Slowly, he made his way closer to the resting angel, eyes travelling across the soft golden form until just shimmering underneath Aziraphale’s surface, he saw it.

A strand of the purest silver was gleaming, nestled within Aziraphale, and everything in Crowley ached to reach out, heart clenching tight in his chest. This was, this is--

His. Aziraphale’s.

_Ours._

Crowley could stand there peering into the other dimension for the rest of eternity. It would probably be acceptable since this _is_ his new eternity thanks to some divine meddling anyways. 

Yet, for once he does not begrudge it all.

Aziraphale’s spirit, even while resting and protecting the silver gleam within, was not doing so peacefully, Crowley noticed. While it lay thrumming with quiet energy, Crowley frowned at the tension in the spirit, its glow instead of radiating outwards seemed to focus inwards…

 _He’s trying to sustain it._ Crowley could only assume, recalling the dark circles under Aziraphale’s physical eyes for the past week, the sluggishness in the angel’s usually fussing, busybody countenance. Of course it was the only thing that made sense.

Angels are not grown, do not have their own capacity to create life. Well, not unless you were interested in blasphemy, creation being the domain of God and all but if She approved this, set certain things in motion inside of Aziraphale, then why was he struggling?

What all does this entail? Humans do their whole business and it is left up to God to breathe the first breath into them and ignite their souls. But they were not human, they were just piloting human forms. Aziraphale’s physical body was growing the child physically, yes, but his spirit was having to grow its _celestial_ form. 

He swore under his breath - back to begrudging - could this have been any more half-cocked an idea from the Almighty? Stepping out of the room and away from the angel, Crowley lets his pupils narrow and with it the curtain towards Aziraphale’s light fell back in place.

 _It is to be yours as well, Crowley._ The words weave through his mind again, pieces he is trying to pull the thread on.

How does an angel create a life, half celestial and half occult? Crowley shuts the door slowly behind him when the answer comes to him.

_It can’t._

He races downstairs, narrowly dodging that blasted stack of books then catching his foot on a stray piece of paper sending him staggering through the shop. Regaining his footing just in time not to bash his face into the corner of Aziraphale’s desk, Crowley hauls himself up to tear through the usually neat desk.

“Where is it where is it,” he hisses, scattering papers everywhere only to snap his fingers and bring them to neat stacks on the other side of the desk. Eventually his fingers caught the heavy stock of the holy letter, and he whistles low in triumph.

Holding the letter further away from his face this time - the memory of that holy sunburn making his skin prickle - Crowley carefully peels it open. Even behind his sunglasses he can feel Heaven’s holy light beaming up at him from the paper.

There was a line somewhere in here Crowley remembered during the first time he read it, eyes jumping across the finely scripted words, that explained this.

He must have skimmed the letter a dozen times as he recalled the rush of emotions he first felt upon reading the letter. Disbelief, confusion, followed by an endless torrent of fear and the undercurrent of something much quieter that he is not ready to identify-

Crowley’s eye jumps to the line, and he feels the thread at last pull the seam closed.

_Of course._

* * *

The next morning Aziraphale comes downstairs to find Crowley already sitting at the table, leaning back with a tablet propped on one of his long legs. Aziraphale notices with an upwind in his mood that Crowley has set the table with another delightful breakfast. 

“Angel,” Crowley says in the way of greeting, not looking up from the tablet as Aziraphale drops into his chair across the table, eyeing the spread Crowley has once again prepared for them - well, him. Crowley was sitting there so he is included.

 _This is getting a bit_... Aziraphale hums internally, feeling the squirm of something in his chest. He’s not sure if Crowley is miracling it all into existence or if the demon has culinary skills, and he does not want to find out just yet. 

It’s nice, he admits to himself.

“Good morning Crowley,” he says lightly, tucking the napkin into his collar. “I see you are once again up early.” Aziraphale tries while watching the other being, hoping to see if he can prompt from the demon a reason for this… _domesticity_ before he realizes an important detail.

When does Crowley usually wake up, anyways? Maybe Crowley did this often, make breakfast but Aziraphale was never around for it? He has never known the demon in this way, one where there are constantly in each other’s presence.

_How long have we been friends?_

Aziraphale is struck with the uncomfortable discovery that even after six thousand years there is still a great deal he doesn’t know about Crowley, and the thought gnaws at him in a way he is not sure how to cope with.

“Angel?” He notices Crowley has looked up from his tablet, finger hovering mid-scroll. “Everything alright?”

Aziraphale nodded carefully, “Yes, my dear,” he makes an effort to begin filling his plate against the inadequacy he now feels. “But you really do not need to do this.”

Crowley snorts, ignoring Aziraphale to go back to his tablet while Aziraphale tucks in. There is quiet in the shop save for the clinking of silverware and the persistent tap of Crowley’s finger on the tablet again.

He sighs.

“Crowley my dear if you please, you know how I feel about electronics at the table--” Aziraphale is cut off by Crowley suddenly leaning over the table into his space, cramming the tablet under his nose and what is _with_ people shoving things in his face lately? “Crowley, what-”

He tries to bat the tablet away only for Crowley to _tsk_ , dodging the hand and then holding it out again, albeit a little further away. 

“Check it out,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale is still pushing the tablet away when the page on the screen loads.

“Oh,” he whispers, eyes going wide. It's a decent size for an English cottage, brick exterior layered by climbing vines and lush greenery creating a natural fence against the world. He hums in pleasure at the berry he bites into along with the cottage’s practical layout. The sturdy, clean architecture seemed both familiar and yet very new to him.

“How do you feel about us taking a trip south for a bit?” Crowley taps a finger on the screen, unaware he just zoomed in then out but Aziraphale doesn’t mind, unable to process anything including the need to continue chewing.

“Aziraphale?” 

He jerks looking up from the cottage to the demon. Crowley’s grin has fallen, probably taking his silence and lack of accepting the tablet as displeasure. Wiping his hands on the napkin he then reaches for the tablet, letting his fingertips rest over Crowley’s before pulling away.

It takes him a couple tries but he finds the little arrow allowing him to scroll through the pictures, each one better than the last in everything from the lush garden beds to the numerous windows that surely let the purest sunlight in.

“For a bit?” Aziraphale asks carefully, biting his lip while reading through each detail about the cottage. A sanctuary, the description rises unbidden in Aziraphale, blinking away the increasing heaviness of his eyes.

Crowley dips his chin, eyebrows arched above his sunglasses. “For a bit,” he repeats quietly and Aziraphale hums, suddenly unsure. _Is this a honeymoon?_ Aziraphale crushes that slinking thought right into powder before it can embarrass him by reaching his mouth.

Already a dozen excuses rest on his tongue, and he is about to start firing them off until he looks up at Crowley’s gloomy face, resignation etched deeply into the lines around his thin mouth. Struck, his eyes fall to the ring on the demon’s hand.

“...How long should I close the shop?”


End file.
